‘I can’t sell this,’ snapped Tamir. ‘Melt it down and try again. And if it comes out just as poorly it’ll be you who gets melted down next.’
Wide eyes. Nod, nod, nod.
‘I don’t understand what you do all day. Your stall is filled with goods. Your purse should be filled with coin. Why can’t you sell these things? It isn’t difficult. Perhaps, you are not trying hard enough. Do you require motivation?’
The trader was nodding before he realized what was being asked and swiftly amended it to an equally emphatic shake. Tamir moved on. The crowds swirled around him. His bodyguards… Now, was this an opportunity? With the entire market terrified of Tamir, his men had relaxed their guard. They had remained behind at another stall, where they were demanding goods to give as gifts to their wives. Tamir had fresh victims to terrorize.
And now Altair slipped between him and the two bodyguards. He tensed, felt the resistance from his blade mechanism on his little finger. Tamir had his back to him, insulting yet another stallholder.
‘You begged me for this position. Swore none could do as well as you. I should -’
Altair stepped forward, and – snick – his blade sprang out as he swept one arm round Tamir and used the other to drive the weapon deep.
Tamir made a strangulated sound but did not scream, and for a second he writhed, before going limp. Over his shoulder, Altair met the wide eyes of the terrified stallholder and saw the man wrestling with what to do: raise the alarm or… The trader turned his back and moved away.
Altair lowered Tamir to the ground between two stalls, out of sight of the bodyguards, who remained oblivious.
Tamir’s eyes fluttered.
‘Be at peace,’ said Altair, gently.
‘You’ll pay for this, Assassin,’ rasped Tamir. A fine line of blood ran from his nose. ‘You and all your kind.’
‘It seems you’re the one who pays now, my friend. You’ll not profit from suffering any longer.’
Tamir gave a harsh, shallow laugh. ‘You think me some petty death-dealer, suckling at the breast of war? A strange target, perhaps? Why me, when so many others do the same?’
‘You believe yourself different, then?’ asked Altair.
‘Oh, but I am, for I serve a far nobler cause than mere profit. Just like my brothers…’
‘Brothers?’
Again Tamir chuckled weakly. ‘Ah… he thinks I act alone. I am but a piece. A man with a part to play. You’ll come to know the others soon enough. They won’t take kindly to what you’ve done.’
‘Good. I look forward to ending their lives as well.’
‘Such pride. It will destroy you, child,’ said Tamir. And he passed.
‘People have to die for things to change,’ intoned Altair, closing the man’s eyes.
He took Al Mualim’s feather from within his robes and stained it with the blood of Tamir, cast a last look at the bodyguards, then moved off, disappearing into the crowds. He was already a ghost when he heard the cry go up behind him.
11
Tamir, the first of the nine: Al Mualim had been quietly satisfied, looking from the blood-stained feather on his desk to Altair and praising him, before giving him his next undertaking.
Altair had bowed his head in assent and left the Master. And the next day he had gathered his supplies and set off once more, this time for Acre – a city held as tightly by the Crusaders as Damascus was by Salah Al’din’s men. A city wounded by war.
Acre had been hard-won. The Christians had retaken it after a prolonged and bloody siege lasting almost two years. Altair had played his part, helping to stop the city’s water supply being poisoned by the Templars.
He had been unable to do anything about the poisoning that did occur, though: corpses in the water had spread disease to Muslim and Christian alike – both inside and outside the city walls. Supplies had run dry, and thousands had simply starved to death. Then more Crusaders had arrived to construct more machines, and their attacks had punched holes in the city walls. The Saracens had fought back for long enough to repair the breaches, until Richard the Lionheart’s army simply wore the Muslims down and they offered surrender. The Crusaders had moved in to claim the city and take its garrison hostage.
Negotiations between Salah Al’din and Richard for the release of the hostages had commenced, the finer points of which had been muddied by a disagreement between Richard and the Frenchman Conrad de Montferrat, who was unwilling to hand over hostages taken by French forces.
Conrad had returned to Tyre; Richard was on his way to Jaffa where his troops would meet those of Salah Al’din. And left in charge was Conrad’s brother, William.
William de Montferrat had ordered the Muslim hostages put to death. Almost three thousand were beheaded.
And so it was that Altair found himself conducting his investigations in a city scarred by its recent history: of siege, disease, starvation, cruelty and bloodshed. A city whose residents knew suffering all too well, whose eyes hid sorrow and whose shoulders were stooped with sadness. In the poor areas he encountered the worst of the suffering. Bodies wrapped in muslin lined the streets, while drunkenness and violence was rife in the ports. The only area of the city not to reek of despair and death was the Chain District, where the Crusaders were based – where Richard had his citadel and William his quarters. From there the Crusaders had pronounced Acre the capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and had used it to stockpile supplies before Richard had set off on the march to Jaffa, leaving William in charge. So far his reign had simply exacerbated the city’s problems, which were all too evident – and pressed in on Altair as he made his way through the streets. He was grateful to complete his investigations and make his way to the Assassins’ Bureau. There the leader, Jabal, sat cooing gently to a pigeon he held. He looked up as Altair entered the room.
‘Ah, Altair,’ he said pleasantly. ‘A little bird told me you’d be paying a visit…’
He smiled at his own joke, then opened his hands to set the pigeon free. Instead it merely alighted on the counter where it puffed out its chest feathers and began walking to and fro as though mounting an avian guard. Jabal watched it with amused eyes, then adjusted himself on his seat to regard his visitor.
‘And who is the poor unfortunate that Al Mualim has chosen to taste your blade, Altair?’ he asked.
‘Al Mualim has ordered the execution of Garnier de Naplouse.’
Jabal started. ‘The Grand Master of the Knights Hospitalier?’
Slowly Altair nodded. ‘Indeed. And I have already determined when and how to strike.’
‘Share your knowledge with me, then.’ Jabal looked impressed, and with good reason.
Altair began: ‘He lives and works within his Order’s hospital, north-west of here. Rumours speak of atrocities committed within its walls.’
As Altair told him what he knew, Jabal nodded thoughtfully, considering his words and asking at length, ‘What is your plan?’
‘Garnier keeps mainly to his quarters inside the hospital, though he leaves occasionally to inspect his patients. It’s when he makes his rounds that I will strike.’
‘It’s clear you’ve given this some thought. I give you leave to go.’ And with that he handed Altair Al Mualim’s marker. ‘Remove this stain from Acre, Altair. Perhaps it will help cleanse your own.’
Altair took the marker, fixed Jabal with a baleful look – was every Assassin to be made aware of his shame? – then left, making his way across the city’s rooftops until he had sight of the hospital. There he stopped, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts as he looked down upon it.
Altair had given Jabal a truncated version of his findings; he had hidden his true feelings of disgust from the Bureau leader. He’d learned that de Naplouse was Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Hospitalier. Originally founded in Jerusalem – their aim to provide care for ailing pilgrims – the Knights had a base in one of Acre’s most deprived areas.